Dear Zach
by AaGallagherGirl
Summary: When Cammie’s life as she knows it is ripped from underneath her, what will she do? How do you grieve for someone who was never found?
1. Homecoming

Chapter 1 ~ Homecoming

Raindrops cascaded down the chipped window pane, washing away the dust and dirt from the unforgiving summer heatwave. They trickled down, leaving fragments of crystal-clear liquid in their path. The pavement was filled with a cacophony of bright colours as leaves sailed down from the old oak trees like feathers in the wind. As cars passed, the piles of leaves would fly up into the air and land again like snowflakes falling from the clouds. For most, the rain washed away the happiness that the summer sun had brought along. The reality of work and school would set in and the small village of Looe would go back to being miserably boring. Not me. Every drop, every fallen leaf, brought a new sensation of excitement to my bones. The idea that autumn was fast approaching did nothing but bring a small smile to my lips...because my body knew that it was a second closer to October 17th.

The weather, as beautiful and picturesque as it was, was not as forgiving outside the comfort of my own home. As I marched down the steps of the old porch, a wind caught my scarf and almost pulled it off from around my neck. The porch swing, thick with crumbling paint, swung steadily with the crisp breeze. I stopped to adjust my hood and tuck the scarf into my coat when I noticed a car pull up outside. The black, slick mercedes was too extravagant for this area of Newcastle. It had silver alloys and blacked out windows, hiding the subject inside. For some unknown reason, my feet were planted firmly in their place. 0813. I would be late for school if I didn't get a move on. As my mind finally won the battle with my body to ignore the cruiser outside of my home, the door finally opened.

Black boots connected with the pavement, buffed so perfectly that you could use it to apply your lipstick if you were short a mirror. His trousers were straight-leg and black, with a red stripe up the side and a precise crease running through the middle. He was young and tall, with a chiseled jawline and a full lips. He stopped to take in the surrounding, tilting his head up to see through the peak of his cap. That's when the man noticed me.

"Are you Miss Morgan?" He asked hesitantly. Believe me I tried to form a string of words, or even a reply at least. But I knew my shaking hands would match my voice so instead, I nodded slowly. Was it possible that the wind became harsher? The cold rain fell heavier?

"Miss Morgan, I think we should go inside," the man's voice was slow and quiet. Not what I expected from a Royal Marine. I knew everything he needed to tell me. I had watched enough TV shows to know what a soldier in full blues at my door meant.

My lips parted without the instruction from my brain, uttering four words that would change my life forever. "He's dead isn't he."


	2. Awakening

**Chapter 2 ~ Awakening **

**If you're a fan of our girl you may notice a slight cross over, that belongs to the BBC (there's your disclaimer). All characters belong to Ally Carter. **

I sat again, perched at my window seat watching the raindrops trickle down the glass. I no longer waited impatiently for October 17th to come around, I dreaded it. Oh, the irony that the day he was meant to come back from Afghanistan would be the day of his funeral.

They said it was a minefield. One of the lads in his section had wandered off alone during a patrol, his first tour, he had stumbled across the unforgiving patch of ground which had taken so many lives before. He went to help him, to stop the mine from detonating and red-misting them both. The funny thing about these old Russian mines was that you never really know how to approach them. They're as unpredictable as the Russian's themselves. Luckily for the young lad, the mine wasn't dangerous enough to blow him into oblivion. Just big enough to blast them off their feet and into the scorching air. A pillow of dust surrounded the field as the detonator went off, all the section could do was hope that the lack of red mist was good news. The lad was found blasted all the way to the end of the minefield, all limbs intact and small graze to his left knee. He wasn't as lucky. Blood poured from his helmet, crimson against the miles and miles of dried mud. A medi-vac was off the cards, the terrain was too unpredictable. A casualty being lifted into a helo, to the taliban it would be like a million dollar lottery ticket dangling off the end of a rope. No, a medi-vac definitely wasn't on the cards. They would have to abort and carry him on foot.

The section, without their leader, trailed through the unforgiving terrain. It would have been sensible to stop and hydrate, rest for five under the scorching Afghan sun. Not for this section. Every second they wasted was a decrease in the likelihood of the Corporal surviving before they even got back to camp. Those lads, even the one who was also in the mine-field blast, carried on no matter what. Once they got back to the camp, he was given mass amounts of medical treatment from the other medics on camp but it was clear he had to be back at Bastion in order to have the best chance at recovery. There had been a shoot out at the Afghan border, all helos were out of the question. He would have to be moved by car. How stupid that one tiny mistake could change everything. He was transported in an unmarked van, two of the lads from the section as guards and a medic in the back. No one thought it could get any worse, until it did.

The taliban ambushed the vehicle, killing the driver and taking the rest captive. Including him. No one knows where they went, where he went. No one ever will. I reached into my dresser, finding the old letter kit I would write with.

Dear… I began to write but then realised, I couldn't think of his name. If I wrote it on paper, it would be real. It can't possibly be real. Scrapping the sheet, I took a deep breath and started again. This time, my hand wrote words without my brain sending the signal.

Hi,

Today is October 17th. I had been looking forward to this day for over 6 months now. Until I got the news. I don't know where you are in this world, or if you're even alive. But if you are, please please come back to me. I can't live without you.

I love you always.

-C

This one was different to the numerous letters I had sent and received. It would never be stamped at the post office, never take a trip overseas. Never be opened. It wouldn't even be packaged into the small envelope. I took the frail page and turned to the large fireplace by my TV. The flames lapped hungrily at the wood like wolves, I watched them dance for a mere second before throwing the paper onto the wood.

One thing was clear to me, something that I hadn't seemed to process until this moment. Matthew Morgan was MIA.


End file.
